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qA City of Caprice 

by 

^7/ Compton Wilson 



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Copyright )j" I J ' LP 



COraiUCHT DEPOSIT. 



A CITY OF CAPRICE 



By Neill Compton Wilson 

Illustrations by 
Haydn Lothers and Ralph Young. 



Can, Ti>ithin a mirror, live 
Scenes already fugitive? 
Can, in oils and canvas, ihus 
Cling a sunset luminous ■f 
Or, though siDeei the corsage, pej 
Flourish, pluclfed, a violet? 
Then, oh ci<p of caprice. 
Shall I capture \pou with these! 



The Overland Publishing Co. 
San Francisco. 






Copyright 1920 

By 

Neill Compton Wilson 



DEC 20 1920 
0)CIA60S178 



CONTENTS 



San Francisco 



9 



The Farallone Isles 10 

With Fremont ^ ' 

Mission Dolores ' "' 

When Sally Danced - ^^ 

Lottas Fountain ' " 

Street of the Adventurers - 'o 

Powell Street ^ ^ 



OTarrell Street 

"Rose of the Rancho" 
In a Garden 



The Trade Wind 27 

Picture Brides 28 

"S. S. China, San Francisco" 29 



Land's End 



30 



The Legend of Tamalpais ^' 

The Fog 11 

Telegraph Hill ^/ 

The Magic Carpet - ^^ 

New Year's Eve— The City 40 

The Tivoli ^ '♦1 

My Friend Rosner 

Barbary Coast 

The Kiss - "^^ 

Market and Kearny 

Bush Street ^J 

Geary Street— Eleven A. M 52 

Grant Avenue ^^ 

Mason Street— Eleven P. M - 54 

Mardi Gras 

In Sanguinetti's - 

The Last Night 59 

, o • 61 

In Passing 

The Lights 



Acknowledgment is hereby made to Prof. Albert 
Stanburrough Cook, founder of the Yale University 
annual prize for poetry, for the republication of 
"The Legend of Tamalpais," the 1911 Yale poem; 
and to the Yale University Press for "In a Garden" 
and "The Kiss." 



A CITY OF CAPRICE 

To E. K. W. 



HI ffi>^^ iKii 




1 



i 


1 



A City of Caprice 



SAN FRANCISCO 

I sometimes wonder if, in days 

When Rome and Thebes were young. 
When Athens ruled her epic sea 

And all its isles among. 
When glory flung her torch in turn 

Unto each city-state. 
You, too, would not have caught at it. 

And men have called you great. 

At times I wonder whether you 

Are really of today. 
Or of another substance, dim 

Transmuted from decay: 
A substance that has outstripped leagues 

And leaped antiquity 
To dwell anew, in lesser state. 

Beside a younger sea. 

Or if, indeed, your stones reveal 

A modern chiseling, 
I wonder whence your attributes 

Of mood and manner spring. 
I wonder at your storied hills. 

Your genius thousand-proved; 
But not at this: that you are held 

Remarkably beloved. 



THE FARALLONE ISLES 

I've seen the sun, in boiling red. 

Go c!ov/n beyond the Fort, 
And Hght those isles, whose distant sails 

Seem galleys, of a sort. 
Forever sailing, ever hxed — 

Those ships that missed the port. 

I've v^atched the crest of Tamalpais, 

Against the sunset, throw 
Her tawny hills in shadow, and 

Her pines turn black below; 
While, standing out to sea, those sails 

Dripped silver in the glow. 

I've waited till the stars came out. 

And from a distant dune 
Beheld a path of tossing light 

Upon the water strewn. 
And ever stood those galleons 

Across the broken moon. 

Perhaps, from some dim yesteryear, 

A proper wind shall play, 
A proper helmsman snatch the wheel 

While yet's a course to lay, 
And ships that missed the port shall come 

To anchor in the Bay. 



10 



WITH FREMONT 

Over the hills but lately Spain, 
Swearing and singing at the miles. 
Lashed we through grasses stirrup-high. 
Riding with Fremont; through deftles 
Up to a crest, and there drew rein. 

Far at our feet they fell away: 
Circled with hills, a silent Bay 
Blue in the sun, and a set of isles. 

Over us laughed a v/inter sky 

Splotched with the lengthened afternoon. 

West, to the sea, a strip of gray 

Wound between headlands. Gilt were they; 

Into that poppied cleft were soon 

Sinking the sun; nor light nor bell 

Noted the requiem of day. 

Empty of sound, of life, of smoke. 

Full at our feet the harbor lay. 

Fremont, his broad hat off, first spoke. 
"Let us push on," he said, " 'tis late. 
Yonder, indeed, is a golden gate." 

Though, as we turned, I thought there broke 
Gleaming a City. Dream or span. 
Fair stood it forth; its walls and spires 
Flashed, and were gone; and headlands glowed 
Only with poppy-kindled fires. 

So, with a touch of spur, we rode 
Down the long slopes while sunset fell. 



MISSION DOLORES 

Here's a garden. Some declare 
Once Dolores wore it, fair 
As a blossom for the hair. 

Passers-by may well forget 
Locks of hers were ever jet. 
But the flower is blooming yet. 

Long have slept, beneath the bough. 
All her brothers in the vow. 
Ay, a crone's Dolores now. 

Daily at her litanies 

Sobs she, slipping to her knees, 

"Padre! All mp children, these?" 

Then, her brief devotions done. 
Sits and drowses in the sun. 
What's a crone to anyone? 



WHEN SALLY DANCED 

When Sally danced, and dance she could. 
The rare old Bella Union stood. 
Oh, v/ell this town was circumstanced, 
When Sally danced. 

When Sally danced, a frail soubrette 
Was Kearny Street, and frailer yet 
Became, if further one perchanced 
Than Sally danced. 

When Sally danced, the near-by Coast 
Its man for breakfast served, by boast. 
Oh, gay Montmartre was out-romanced. 
When Sally danced. 

There Billy Dwyer and Happy Jack 
Encompassed ends by faro stack 
To tinkling banjos, twinkling feet 
In Jackson Street. 

Ah, what a bosom pair they were! 
Bland Happy, trousers lavender. 
Impeccable of creamy spat 
And silk of hat; 

And Billy, though no looking-glass. 
The Damon of his Pythias. 
Twas yonder Billy ebbed his life 
On Happy's knife; 

And yonder Cowboy Maggie wrought 
One man to death, another shot — 
Some faint-of-heart procrastinator 
She wedded later. 



When Sally danced, the Quarter knew 
Its What Cheer House, its Avenue; 
Though haunts have changed, events have chanced, 
Since Sally danced. 

Oh where, relict of other ages. 
Roll now those brilliant equipages. 
Blocking doors, betore the Fire, 
For Bottle Meyer? 

Then chance had picked and art arrayed. 
And Comstock riches freshly made 
Of Kearny Street a Roman path 
To Zeile's bath. 

Within a Bush Street theater 
Belasco, Warfield call-boys were; 
And Booth, McCullough, Barrett, Kean 
Were nightly seen. 

When Sally danced, the place to go 
Tortoni's was, before the show; 
And afterward, the demi-monde 
Acclaimed Marchand. 

Ah, Sally! Though another aeon 
Prevails in fields terpsichorean. 
And far indeed v/e have advanced 
Since thus you danced. 

Yet when was dancer ever gayer 
Than Bella Union's Sally Thayer? 
Or who, of modern days, might cope 
With Ida Siddons skipping rope? 
Or who, for elemental fun. 



14 



With merry Fanny Garretson? 

Though like Lot's wife we've Sodom fled 

Yet backward glanced. 
Pray, have we then so profited 

Since Sally danced? 
Since Sally danced, erotic maid, 

And Lotta played? 



15 



LOTTA'S FOUNTAIN 

Lotta! Lapse of years withal. 
How your star theatrical 

Sparkled once with ardor; 
How your dozenth curtain call 

But provoked the harder! 
Yesterday they loved you well. 
Marchioness or Little Nell! 
Yesterday, indeed; but who 
Bothers now to think of you? 

Once you, Lotta, girlish, fair. 

Caught their flowers, protesting, 

Blowing kisses to the air; 

And, attesting such affair. 
Earnestly yet jesting 

Placed you fount where Kearny meets 

Market, Third, and Geary Streets. 

Years how fateful, fogs how cold. 
Round that fountain since have rolled,- 

Summers waned a-weary. 
Since its shaft turned mossy, old! 
Yet the sunset still her gold 

Flings at it down Geary; 
New Year still, with romping feet. 
Dances past up Market Street; 
Round by round, Homeric fights. 
Bulletined election nights. 
Wars and harbingers of wars, 
Christmas Eves beneath the stars, 
Carnival and traffic, all 
Round have swung centripetal. 

One day, then, a little old 
Lady from a journey 



16 



Murmured: "Pardon, sir; 'tis bold. 

But the city's changed, I'm told." 

So I pointed out to her 

Where the Baldwin Theater 

And her vanished landmarks were. 

Then she sighed, and asked: "And where 

Market crosses Kearny, 
Stands by chance a fountain there?" 

say. 
Stands Goat Island or the Bay, 

Chinatown or Mission! 
So I tutored her straightway 

In the town's tradition. 
Then she smiled, and whispered low: 
"I am Lotta Crabtree." Though, 
Kow was anyone to kncv? 



STREET OF THE ADVENTURERS 

Here, tradition still avers. 
Loiter the adventurers. 
Waiting call to high emprise 
Off where buried treasure lies. 
Flotsam of the seven seas. 
Combers of the beaches these. 
Blown from every coco-isle, 
Bide they here awhile; 
Bide they till some pinnace shoves 
Off for further treasure-troves. 

Once the captain of them all 
Tarried by this plaza wall. 
Pondering, with dreaming eyes, 

Sea-borne enterprise; 
One who now forever dwells 
In the murmur of his swells. 
Port attained, adventure won — 
Dreamy, restless Stevenson. 

But the others — who are they. 
Into twilight sailed away. 
Into purple mist, that thus 
Mantles the adventurous? 
Years agone and years anew 
Ships this grim, persistent crew; 
Winds agone and winds to be 

Blow them far to sea. 
Yet the winds, returning, greet 
Ever these in Kearny Street. 



18 



POWELL STREET 

A lane there is, when daylight dies. 
Of piquant lips and laughing eyes; 

A lane that calls the season's bloom 
Beside her curb in quaint perfume; 

That all unheralded, unsung. 
Grows nightly old, yet ever young. 

This Street of Youth is short, at best; 
Three blocks, then alters interest. 

Her shops are small; she scarce invites 
V/ith window-shows or blaze of lights. 

Yet, brief of span or short of bards. 
She breathes of Old World boulevards. 

And, eight to twelve, attains delight 
In breaking petals with the night. 

Scant Street of Youth! What frail romance 
hi coquetry, in passing glance — 

In swing of ankle, curve of cheek. 
And lashes half inclined to speak. 

Here proffer folly, venture charm 
To snatch a moment arm-in-arm! 

From eight to twelve: so swiftly fade 
The hues along this promenade. 



Then stars turn chill, then lights grow brusque 
To this rialto of the dusk. 

The play is spent, the night soon old. 
The cafes out, the flowers sold. 

The taxis gone, the sidewalks bare 
From Eddy Street to Union Square. 

Yet is there one you seek to meet? 
Then come tonight to Powell Street, 



20 



OTARRELL STREET 

What was that show of Belasco's? — grace 
Keeping a barroom; a play of gun. 
Bandit and sheriff in headlong race. 

Lather and leather and hearts undone, 
lill, with a flourish, the girld an ace 

Drew from her boot, and the game was won? 

Yonder the pines and the peaks attest 
Staunchly that "Girl of the Golden West." 

What was that play of the days Bret Harte 

Painted with luminous pigments, till 
Miners and mountebanks, kings apart. 

Strode through the wilderness at his will? 
Freohets of spring at the memory start; 
Perfumed azaleas seem blooming still. 

Yonder the pools and the peaks remain; 
Where then, where are you, "Samanthy Jan 

There was another; it sent a gleam 
Hot as a sunset across the stage. 
"Rose of the Rancho"! Did Tully dream, 

Or was it all of a golden age 
Sinking in purple and dusk, that theme 
Drawn from a Mexican heritage? 

Yonder the redolent tarweed blows 

Where you once flourished, forgotten Rose. 

So, though the picturesque Argonaut 

Hitches no wagon to westward star. 
Through the days epic are near forgot. 

Nights once Homeric grov/n very far. 
Still have their colors been faintly caught. 
Still remain stock and the Alcazar. 

Up with the curtain! Let present meet 
Gravely the past in O'Farrell Street! 



"ROSE OF THE RANCHO' 

When Paloma plaintive plays. 
And the Rose of old portrays 

History 'neath her curtain, 
Live those magic Spanish days 

Dim no more, but certain — 
Days of dulcetness and drouth 
On a white road reaching south. 

Then, within the Alcazar, 
Leaps fandango, sweeps guitar. 

Trip again the Forties 
With their tilts at love and war. 

Feuds, surprises, sorties — 
All the trappings that recall 
California pastoral. 

Tully tells me, in the wings. 
That he placed his happenings 

At San Juan Bautista; 
That Belasco added things 

To enhance the vista. 
Where no daring brush could paint 
Life too vivid, love too quaint. 

Long-horn cattle, where are they? 
Silver spurs that yesterday 

Set fiestas jingling? 
Padras grave, senoras gay, 

Gringoes intermingling, 
V/hile the neophytes of old 
Toiled afield, and matins tolled? 



22 



With the legends! For them all 
Croons Juanila now. Her shawl 

Slovv'ly fades and ravels. 
Still the pear buds bloom and fall, 

Still the white road travels, 
jingling yet with bit and spur 
South and north, but not to her. 

Nay, Juanita, not this sigh! 
Roses still are climbing by. 

Bells are stirring gently. 
V/hite the moon-drenched arches lie. 

Waiting, evidently. 
Wake! and live again the day 
Love and music rode this way. 

Soft, beside your Mission well. 

Pluck your strings and weave your spell. 

Scenes forgot arousing. 
Where in truth but ruins dwell. 

Half a century drowsing. 
Bid adventure, past and gone. 
Tread your garden at San Juan! 



23 



IN A GARDEN 

Above, the moon. See, Father Angelo, 

These Hmped walls, bathed whiter than they are, 

And roof tiles sagging? Here, man, long ago, 

(Tis through some gate of memory, left ajar 

As this one now, to tangled patio), — 

I heard the strumming of an old guitar. 

I heard a voice: 'twas from a balcony. 

And strangely sweet. Ah, saints, the things we do: 
I paused, though monk, beneath this very tree! 

Of ladies gay, and caballeros true. 
And love, and laughter, sang one down to me ; 

Though tears were in it, tears and laughter too. 

You falter, priest? Then take my arm: 'tis thus 

We'll stroll the vine-grown spot. How memories live. 

And odors of the night bring back to us 
What fifty years had banished fugitive. 

Till white-haired monks by moon grow garrulous! — 
She thought I was another. Saints forgive! 

And I ? Nay, hear me ; 'tis a monstrous thing. 

Though you kept cell that night, the world was wide; 
Nor heard I vesper's distant murmuring. 

Nor heeded vows and cassock mortified. 
The night and I were young. I gave a swing. 

And climbed through roses to the lady's side. 

Those chinking chords, how yet they sweep and swell! 

Those songs of men that, acolyte, I heard! 
How strange the weaving night, to net its spell 

On maid forlorn, and monk from beads deterred! 
(Though long the nights I've wrested, in my cell.) 

And here, where's dark, another came; nor stirred. 



24 



You stumble, Angelo? Why, then, your wrist; 

This path is deep indeed in disrepair. 
Yet praise the saints, meek priest, for all you've missed; 

'Tis reconciling to a life of prayer 
To've sorrowed ne'er for sin of stolen tryst. 

Or scent of roses in a woman's hair. 

Nay, palsied priest! The years thick-matted lie; 

Pick up your stick; let fall your pious hand. 
You've turned the wintry lane; no less have I. 

Yet mark: I'll warrant, ere your Mays were spanned, 
A gallant youth, though church'y, swaggered by! 

Protest you so? Well, then, we'll let it stand. 

But ah, those tantalizing chants she sung. 

Though ears of mine ill served that lent them grace; 
Those parted lips; those piquant glances flung. 

Yet instrument that always foiled embrace! 
Now Mother of God! I've cast from beads among. 

To see on Holy Crucifix, that face. 

Ay, Angelo, there's madness loose by night. 

This moon: there's much, that goes untold, it sees. 
Her strings crashed harsh. A scream, a stab of light. 

And she sank coughing, choking to her knees. 
Now Jesu judge this guilty three aright. 

Since she must pass, who sinned the least of these. 

Ay, piiest, 'tis growing late. Yet note: a doubt. 
Past all stern reason, in that night began. 

I'll purge it now. This fellow whipped about; 
Yon moon, that glimmered on him as he ran, 



25 



Fell — so. And now the gibbering thing is out: 

To candles! Thought vour secret buried, man? 



And she? Ah, well, the night's disquieting. 

Tis by; the mouldy thing's best Angelo's. 
On yonder tiles new bloom is rioting. 

Her lattice bangs for every breeze that blows, 
I'll break this bit of fragrance, wet with spring. 

There's perfume in it of an old, old rose. 



26 



THE TRADE WIND 

In from the West, with open breast, 

Aeola danced one day; 
Laughing her Hps, and her color high. 

Laughing her eyes, and gray; 
Free on the air as her floating hair 

Fluttered a wraith of gown; 
Aeola danced through the Gate one day — 

Lo, and the fog shut down. 

Lo, and the fog shut wide and thick; 

Gone were the island heights; 
Blaspheming craft through the murk slid past; 

Glimmered the riding-lights; 
Gone were the hills, and the city's streets 

Groped in uncertainty. 
Swallowing gloom with the salt perfume 

Spumed by the hale old sea. 

Aeola laughed at each bumping craft 

Blundering on the tide; 
Laughed at the awnings that sagged and dripped. 

Laughed at the Hghts inside; 
Laughed, and in access of modesty 

Gathered her veils about — 
Lo, and the ships at the bar stood home. 

Ships for the sea stood out. 



27 



PICTURE BRIDES 

Cherry petals from Japan, 

Brides from windward flocking, 
Each as pretty as a fan. 

And as madly mocking. 
Far, now far from Fuji San 

Is your steamer docking. 

Each on pilgrimage of love. 

Wondering, elated, — 
Each the wedded helpmeet of 

Bridegroom picture-mated. 
Peeps, a dainty treasure trove. 

For the husband fated. 

Fragile bits of cloisonne, 
Vases quaint, exquisite. 

Banzai! Tarry here a day 
On a maiden visit. 

Nay, the husbands urge? Then say 
Which, oh which one is it? 

Now the husbands brisk appear 
Up the plank unruffled. 

Ah, the meetings that endear. 
Greetings shy and muffled! 

Ah, if husbands at the pier 
Got the pictures shuffled! 



"S. S. CHINA, SAN FRANCISCO" 

(One hundred and fifl\) voijages across the Pacific) 

When last the watch, when burn the side-Hghts dim. 

Past seven bells, no "scrapped for copper" she. 
A better port she'll seek on some far rim. 

And as toward first Alohas, full and free. 

Toward leis of greeting, lines still true and trim 
And masts aslant, she'll settle to the sea. 

Then wind and sun will scour her empty lane. 

The gulls will search the swells she used to dip. 
Ay, parting leis will wait for her in vain. 

So into port, eight bells unstruck, she'll slip. 

And those who know the docks, nor find again 
Her like, will mutter: "Ay. There went a ship." 



29 



LAND'S END 

I watch the skirts of evening catch 

The molten flames of Pele, 
And almost hear a wind-borne snatch 
Of mid-Paciiic tarepatch. 
Or throb of ukulele. 

I watch the staunch old "China", link 

With isles Kamehamehan, 
To westward wing, and on the brink 
Of sunset pause, then hull-down sink 
In lava Kilauean. 

I wonder if, when time began. 

In fluid days and olden. 
Some bridge was not designed to span 
This shore to isles Oahuan, 

Those coral coasts to golden. 

So kindred are they, each to each, 

Ihe very tide that ferries 
This idle flotsam out of reach. 
Returning, casts upon the beach 
Some wild ohelo berries. 



30 



THE LEGEND OF TAMALPAIS 

(Tamalpais, the mountain n)/i:c/i rises above San Francisco Bay, presents 
to the cities below the silhouette of a sleeping maid.) 



Maid of the silent hills, the sea turns gra}). 

Up from the eastern rim the torch of datvn 
Kindles the clouds, and lights the lapping Ba^. 
Out of a rvind-brushed skv ^^e stars are gone; 
Down the long glens the tints of morning creep. 
Still in a waJfing rvorld ]^ou slumber on. 
Careless of day, in dreams long ages deep. 

Maid of the hills, iQ>hat ancient legend bids you sleep? 

Flocks lay dead on the hillside. 

Forests were brown and dry. 
And the sun beat over, relentless. 

Fixed in a copper sky. 
"0 warrior chief of the Jamais, 

Yield — we are sore afraid!" 
"Not till the hills are melted 

Will I yield up the mountain maid!" 

"Yield to the wrathful sun-god!" 

"Not till the sea runs dry!" 
"But our flocks from the snows of Shasta 

Lie dead to Tehachepi." 
"Fit my canoe then for battle. 

Fetch then my arms to me ! " 
Alone on the Bay he ventured. 

And struck for the open sea. 

Far to the West he paddled. 

Near the circling edge of the world. 



Where rocks still jut from the ocean 

'Tis said that he gras.ped and hurled; 

Weary and long raged the battle, — 
Shoreward then rose a cry. 

For blood ran the heavens from Shasta 
To burning Tehachepi. 

Into the seething ocean. 

Over the blistering rim. 
Vanished the sun; and the warrior. 

Harried and follov^ed him. 
"0 warrior chief of the Tamals, 

Hailing, we wait for thee!" 
But the maiden knelt on her hill-crest, 

And strained to the open sea. 

Dark grew the lapping waters. 

Strangely the hills turned gray. 
Night first came to the Tamals; 

Vast was their new dismay. 
"Lo, he has slain the sun-god; 

Where will a torch now burn?" 
"Lo, he is lost on the waters. 

My love, and he'll ne'er return!" 

So on the hill they found her. 

Though in twilight the sea lay blurred; 
And they spoke, and gently they shook her. 

But she answered never a word. 
Then under the stars' first gleaming. 

With her face still turned to the V/est, 
Alone on the darkening mountain. 

They laid her away to rest. 



32 



Over the edge of the ocean 

Slipped the lost warrior then. 
And a strange orb, rising and setting. 

Trailed her new light over men. 
Stars came and went from the heavens, 

Glittering, one by one. 
When lo, from an East resplendent. 

Arose the resurgent sun. 

They say Mother Nature, weeping. 

Shed over the sad land rain. 
That brooks to the sea fell splashing. 

And forests turned green again; 
That thus burn the hills in summer. 

That so weep the winter skies. 
Though the Tamals long have departed 

For forests of Paradise. 

Yet, when the evening shadows 

Long in the canyons lie. 
When, over waiting waters. 

Red is the western sky. 
When, under closing twilight. 

Red are the hills, and fade, 
Tis but the sun-god, dying. 

Kissing the sleeping maid. 

So she will lie in slumber. 

Turned to the darkening West, 
Veiled by the mists at evening. 

Soft by the night caressed. 
Cooled by the winds in summer. 

Lashed by the winter's rain. 
Till her lover, lost on the ocean. 

Comes from the West again. 



33 



Maid of the mountain, sleep. The shadoTvs fall, 
NoJv is ^our age-long whispered s/orij told. 
Over ^our head the circling night-birds call. 
Dark '"'■" ihe canyon pines. The sea grorvs cold; 
In from the open West soft mists, unrolled, 
DoTon the long yelloiv hills of evening creep, 
Veiling your form in purple, as of old. 
Lights prick ^he valley. Canyon glens grow deep. 

Night is at hand, and silence. Maid of the mountain, sleep. 



34 



THE FOG 

I was with Drake, 

While his corvette tarried 
Grim in the wake 

Of a Spain long harried. 
Closed I the Break 

To the crew he carried. 

(Closed I the Break 

In the coast, and parried 
Skillfully Drake.) 

Held I the Breach, 

Though the trade winds, blowing, 
Oft would beseech. 

Or a sail unknowing 
Pass within reach 

Where were wild flowers growing. 

(Dunes of the beach 

And my poppies blowing. 
Held we the Breach.) 

Age-long adrift 

Where the Bay tides nestle. 
Naught but the thrift 

Or a Tamal's pestle 
Heard I, when swift 

Chanced Ayala's vessel. 

(Scarce did I lift. 

Yet his tiny vessel 
Plunged through the Rift.) 

Followed then flocks 

Of a padre's tending; 



35 



Lo, then an ox 

From the far plains wending: 
Cities sprang, docks 

And a noise unending. 

(Ah, for the flocks 

And the hills extending; 
Miss I the flocks.) 

I was astir 

When the Rio, routed. 
Sank in the blur 

Of the Gate she flouted. 
Reckless it were 

That my Gate be doubted. 

(Who recalls her? 

Like my poppies, routed. 
Lost in the blur?) 

Though, when the shrift 

Of these stones is over. 
When the white drift 

Of the sands yields cover. 
Still shall I sift 

Through the hills, and hover. 

(Still shall I drift. 

Till my poppies cover 
Bright, where I lift.) 



36 



TELEGRAPH HILL 

Sure, Mother Machree was your mother. Wild Rose, 

Mavourneen so temptin' and darin'. 
A sun of the West may be dryin' the clothes. 

But the mist in your eye is of Erin. 
The toss of your head is a manner as old, 

Though for it, colleen, we adore you. 
As any that ever your sister Isolde 

Fetched Tristan the centuries before you. 

Oh mists that are Erin, blow, blow for her siill 
Thai lives at the bottom of Telegraph Hill! 

Now donna est mobile! Eyes that were blue 

Still laugh, still allure, but turn deeper; 
And color on browner cheeks heightens anew 

As Telegraph Hill becomes steeper; 
As streets become swarming, till life were a war 

Of trouble and toil and begetting. 
Ah, Tosca! Fair Gilda! Nay, sweet Lammermoor, 

In what a gregarious setting! 

Ah, moon that is Naples, sivim ever, yet spill 
Some bit of effulgence for Telegraph Hill! 

Swift tumble the slopes, till in soil of today 

A seed of the past is transplanted. 
From under the lanterns of younger Cathay 

One peeps, her cheeks olive, eyes slanted. 
Hands wistfully thrust into sleeve, to perview 

The trend of the times through her lashes. 
Where West becomes East and the old becomes new. 

And most of it rattles and crashes. 

— A bit of old Canton, dare, dream as she will. 
Abroad in the shadow of Telegraph Hill. 



37 



THE MAGIC CARPET 

Once, they say, in dim Bagdad, 
Caliph magic carpet had. 
Bearing riders, land or sea. 
Far from Araby. 

Though is here no caliphate. 
Tongues as intricate await: 
Haunts eccentric, jaunts profound. 
Half the world around. 

Come tonight; and be to Spain 
Ferried swift and back again. 
Contemplating, as we will. 
Manners in Seville. 

There indeed will gleam bazaars. 
Loiter lovers, thrum guitars. 
Stout duennas take the breeze 
From their balconies; — 

Come; for half an hour or so 
Dine in France; a vintage know 
Worthy of the sun that spills 
Down her Lorraine hills. 



Till, as silver night appears. 
Lorn Venitian gondoliers 
Lift "Lucia", though a oar 
Drips the moon no more. 

Or, should westward moon grow wan, 
Saunter shall we to Milan, 
Drinking, where true lover sits. 
Opera at two bits; 



38 



Though, in near cathedral, glow 
Candles of old Mexico; 
Through, from neighbor window, rise 
Tyrol melodies. 

Coral coast or sunset isle. 
Sounds are swift and scents beguile, 
Till the fire-mist hovers o'er 
Mauna Loa's shore; 

Till, indeed, the shades refute, 
Broadway's thousand tongues grow mute. 
Snuffed her lanterns, dark her steeps. 
And the North Beach sleeps. 

Quarter of the called-afar. 
You the magic carpet are. 
Quainter, caliph never had. 
Back in dim Bagdad. 



39 



NEW YEAR'S EVE— THE CITY 

As a poppy, copper-spun. 
Lifts her chalice to the sun 

With a dewdrop in it. 
Toasts my lady to the years: 
Half in laughter, half in tears 
As the old love disappears. 

Sips to new his minute — 
Drinks to new love, transient guest. 
Soon for limbo with the rest. 

Madcap grows the folly thus? 
Leaps the music riotous? 

Prodigal and merry 
NJ^irls my lady. Come what may. 
Come! tonight the fiddles play; 
Come! enough of yesterday; 

All is momentary. 
All this merry, tragic stuff 
Tipped and shattered, soon enough. 

Though, when flood the tints of dawn 
Through the windows, blinds undrawn. 

Surfeited and bitter 
Sobs my lady, raiment torn. 
Guests departed, sunk forlorn? 
Nay, a hostess to the morn 

Laughs amidst the litter. 
As a poppy, day begun 
Opens bravely to the sun. 



40 



THE TIVOLI 

The Tivoli! How ghosts suffuse 
That temple to ejected muse! 

'Twas there that Martha sobbed and sighed 
In braver times; that Mimi died. 

That Carmen strutted vengeful, gay. 
And Violetta pined away. 

In days congenial, nights replete 
With melody in Eddy Street. 

Twas there, though opera surged below. 
In Lovers' Lane occurred the show; 

That tables scraped, and half the town 
Upon the other half looked down ; 

That souls of dual taste could hear 
Their Tetrazzini with their beer. 

Their ears regale, their lips assuage, 
Nor miss a movement of the stage. 

Such stage as now lies darkened, dumb 
Beneath its gilt proscenium. 

Who now shall sketch, or quite appraise. 
That Tivoli of other days? 

Yet when the City once faced grim 
The cinders of an interim. 



It seemed as if could break her heart 
Unless the Tivoli would start. 

It seemed: but when above such woes 
A Tivoli anew arose. 

The mirth seemed sparkless, chill the song. 
The torch had flickered out too long. 

But ah, for one more joyous strain 
That used to burst in Anna Lane, — 

One fragment of the glad encores 

That used to batter through the doors, — 

The scenes, the lights, the girls, the beer. 
The old traditions blessed, queer. 

The memories fragrant, echoes siveet 
Of vanished nights in Eddy Street! 



42 



MY FRIEND ROSNER 

My friend Rosner says that songs. 
Though oi fashion fleeting. 

Ne'er lose charm, where charm belongs. 
By repeating; 

Though, for thirty years or so. 

He has heard them come and go. 

Rosner says that never jest. 

In the least deserving. 
Dulls for him in interest 

By preserving: 
Gentle leader, past whose head 
Shafts these thirty years have sped. 

Rosner! Were the stars all known, 

Lucent and subsided. 
Whom your raised baton alone 

Safe has guided 
From horizon to the heights. 
What a host of gleam-by-nights! 

Does a jester fail to score? 

Rosner's head, instanter. 
Rears its arid summit, for 

Him to banter. 
Does a prima donna flat? 
Rosner's fiddles bolster that. 
Does a tumbler overreach? 
Swift his trombones to the breach! 
Snaps a virtuoso's string? 
Throbs his organ, succoring 



Then, one night, the Orpheum 
Found his organ closed and dumb. 



43 



Dumb? Perhaps. But somehow grief 

Limns another vision. 
And he's but stepped down, this brief 

Intermission — 
He, perpetuate for whom 
Jests their flavor, songs their bloom. 

Maybe, when the Hghts are low. 

Actor-shadows linger 
In the wings, where grins Pierrot, 

Pointing finger. 
And the stars of other days 
Sing the ballads Rosner plays. 



44 



BARBARY COAST 

I wandered into a dive one night. 

Though tarnished the front facade, 
A welcome struggled still bravely bright. 

And still a piano played. 
And one came over with beard as white 

As foam on a stein, who said: 

"Where are the folks tonight. Stranger? Things 

Seem rather quiet here." 
Cone ivhere the uttermost welkin rings. 

Cone with the yesteryear! 

"Where is that den of the old North Beach, 

Kippered in ale and smoke, 
Where Jack the Ripper, with horrid screech. 

Nightly the dead awoke? 
Wine flowed as water; the v/aiters each 

Carried a wagon spoke. 

"What has become of the sights of yore. 

The singers of yesterday?" 
Cone with the wings of a last encore. 

Cone as a flung bouquet! 

"Where are the cronies I used to meet. 

Rallied from near and far. 
Swapping the tales of the whaling fleet 

Snug at the Bowhead Bar? 
Answer me. Stranger, I'll fair entreat: 

Tell where my shipmates are!" 

Where are the winds of the vast uncruised, 
The lights of the unseen beach? 



45 



Where are the Bay's blue tides, that used 
Once to Montgomery reach? 

Then he observed, though his beard was white. 

Past his allotted span, 
"Sailor or cowpuncher, set me right: 

Preacher or mining man. 
What of that queen of Egyptian night. 

What of the glad can-can? 

"Where are the lasses I used to know. 

The dollar-a-bottle beer?" 
Cone with the ghosts of the long ago. 

Cone with the last frontier. 



46 



THE KISS 

All right, I killed him. Well, and who's to fret? 

A girl can't swing for tryin' suicide! 

I tell you that he fought me for the thing. 

Just fought me for it. Nice place this, to bring 

A girl to, ain't it? Gimme a cigarette. 

You say you write police news? Say, you've got 

A pull here, haven't you, some drag inside 

To get a girl some coke? My nerves is shot; 

I haven't slept a minute since he died. 

Right in my arms. Aw, why keep questioning 

A giil for stuff she's tryin' to forget? 

All right, I'll spill the story; though I'll bet 

That jailer's ugly ear is at the door. 

I loved him. That's the truth, as God's my store. 
I loved him as a woman loves, who'd fling 
Her soul to hell, with life and body, for 
One hour of happiness. 

All right, I'll swing. 
I tell you that I loved him. That is, till 
I watched him an' this other girl go by. 
Out on the dance floor there; an' passin', I 
Heard what he said. Then sounds an' things went stil 
Somethin' just seemed to snap. I don't know what, 
Somethin' just seemed to snap. 

Ah, why do you 
Try to ask questions? Ain't my nerves been shot? 

All I know is, it seemed the lights went out. 
I went on dancin', yes; or moved about 



47 



In twilight, sort o'; but for me, I knew 
The dance was over, and the music through. 

I got it. In a capsule. Never mind 
Askin' me how — just take it as you find: 
I got it. 

Then, ahhough I'd had my hour, 
Knowin', for me, the honey all was sipped. 
The summer gone, an' me the wilted flower, 
I couldn't do it. God, if only I'd 
Swallowed that little capsule when I tried! 
I couldn't die! I just, just couldn't die! 

Then he came whistlin' past. The floor was bare. 
Someone was settin' chairs an' sweepin' out. 
"Mollie", he murmured when he seen me there, 
"Mollie!" he cried, "What's all the row about?" 

I couldn't answer. Hadn't I just tried 
To die? 

An' then I felt his sleeve, his coat 
Pressin' me close. "Kid, give us just a hiss. 
Just one, one kiss," he whispered. And I tried, 
Fightin', to shove him off. But then he lied. 
Lied with his lips about this girl o' his. 
And I? You v/onder at the wom.an of it? 
When I turned up my face to his, I'd slipped 
The capsule to my tongue. If dreams could quit! 
A second more, he'd kissed me. "Kid, I love it. 
Honest, Kid — ". An' then his eyes grew wide; 
"The sugar on your lips — ". He caught his throat. 



Staggered, and sank. 1 guess you gather it; 
The sugar on my Hps was cyanide. 

An' I? Well, ain't I here? 

I thought you spoke. 
Faugh, what a cigarette ! I can't taste smoke. 
The coke! Oh, God, kid, get it quick! The coke! 



49 



MARKET AND KEARNY 

Violet', lady? Thees-a ones, 

Fresh-a so and merry. 
Only ten-a cent' the bunch. 

Jonquil'? Huckleberry? 
Sweet acacia? Almond bloss'. 

Firs' of February? 

Orchid', miss? Or what you call 

Don'-forget-a-me's ? 
Fifteen cent'! Ah, take the bunch, 

Such a handful these! 
I will not forget-a you; 

Come tomorra, please! 



50 



BUSH STREET 

Millicent her lattice flung 

To the day's advance. 
And the morning mirrored hung 

In her radiance. 
Soon adorable she looked 

As the gods could wish. 
While a trifling breakfast cooked 

In its chafing dish. 

Millicent the flowers arranged. 

Put the dishes back. 
Had the goldfish water changed. 

Touched the bric-a-brac. 
Ordered something from the store. 

There ! the day's complete — 
What a gorgeous morning for 

Uoing Geary Street! 



GEARY STREET— ELEVEN A. M. 

Millicent in foxes' fur, 

Millicent and muff, 
(They were but a part of her. 

For 'twas mild enough), — 
MilHcent, from clever head 

Trim to stylish feet. 
Window-shopped and visited. 

Doing Geary Street. 

Millicent, approving, passed 

Millicents galore. 
Each as different from the last 

As the buds she wore; 
Each unlike, to all intents. 

As a rose from rose. 
Fragrant lane of Millicents, 

What a garden blows! 



52 



GRANT AVENUE 

Fog: and skies yet duller. 

Wind: and rains descend — 
Here engenders color. 

Here the rainbows end. 
Sun: and breezes vagrant. 

Seeking boughs of spring. 
Stir a bud as fragrant — 

Fashion's opening. 

Morn: milady fingers 

Modes to break the heart. 
Noon: and still she lingers 

By the flower mart. 
Night: milady, dancing 

Many miles away. 
Wears the things entrancing 

That she bought today. 

Vale of lovely women. 

Haunt of hearts-at-sleeve. 
Here, by every omen. 

Shall the gods retrieve; 
Here, though world the darkling 

Wine glass push aside. 
Shall a bead leap sparkling. 

Shall a bloom abide. 



53 



MASON STREET— ELEVEN P. M. 

Spangles flashing, slippers twinkling. 
Round and round she goes. 

To the mad piano's tinkling. 
On her tippy-toes. 

Waiter! Has the girl no inkling 
Of the word repose? 

Flagellate 'em! Fast, Professor, 

Beat the ivories hard! 
Never pace a minute lesser. 

While the night is starred. 
Waiter! Who's the giddy dresser 

Glancing hitherward? 

Cheek allures and lips abet it. 

Mistress with the eyes. 
Speak then: do we pirouette it 

Where the sachet flies? 
Ah, the prospect dazzles? Let it! 

Evening star, arise! 

Psyche's nearest rival, spritely 

Condiment of art. 
Hug, oh hug me not so tightly. 

Let me breathe, dear heart. 
Less inured am I to nightly 

Passion a la carte. 

Listen, Circe's little sister. 

Once embraced, endeared: 

You have scorched my soul; I blister. 
Even as I feared. 

Waiter! Chasers two! I kissed her. 
And it tasted weird. 



54 



Pound the box. Professor! Shocking 
Though the modern Eve, 

And a lady's lost her stocking, 
I decline to leave. 

What, the hour so soon for locking? 
Halts all make-believe? 

Gently, w^aiter. Friend, confessor, 
Where's the sidewalk, please? 

Hail, the honest milkman! Yessir, 
Morning air agrees. 

Man! but couldn't that professor 
Castigate those keys? 



55 



MARDI GRAS 

Mardi Gras! While sweep the strings. 
History in pageant springs 

From her crowded pages 
With the sunset's colorings 

And the lore of ages. 
Reign, anacronism; call, 
Modey, to the brilliant hall ! 

Bandit of the coach express. 
Gambler of the Fifties, — yes. 

Somber Vigilante, 
Greet, and ancient differences 

Purge in red Chianti. 
Ho, Don Gasper, dip with bliss 
Your Castilian beard in this! 

Monk, whose lips communion bold 
With Senora's covet, hold! 

Saintlier and moister 
Were this .purple vintage, old 

As a Mission cloister. 
Pour, yet pour ; for good and all 
Soon 'twill be apocryphal. 

Throb then, 'cellos, summon drums: 
Caballero, haste! nor strums 

Cadence thus manana. 
Nay, too late! The Gringo comes, 

Cowman in bandana. 
Sweeping seven-gallon hat 
To the Girl of Poker Flat. 



56 



Senorita, breathless flirt, 

Close your fan and gather skirt. 

Hither strides a miner. 
By his boots and colored shirt 

Clearly Forty-niner. 
Come! from pages of romance 
Step, and show how Spain could dance. 

— So, in pageantry expressed. 
Splash the colors of the West 

in a merry blending. 
Though, with final vintage pressed. 

Were it, think you, ending? 
Past and done the Things that Are, 
With mantilla and guitar? 



57 



IN SANGUINETTI'S 

You acquaint' my good frien' Steve, 

Others quick forget? 
One time all acquaint' with him, 

Steve-a Sanguinett'. 

You remember his-a place. 
Always wide the door? 

Poet', artis', come to it 
Twenty years or more. 

Always gay the glasses clink'. 
Always glad the shout; 

Then the Fire come pouff! along, 
Steve-a got burnt out. 

Ah, the vin in cellar pop. 

Ah, the burn' spaghett'! 

Poet', artis', seldom come 
Back to Sanguinett'. 

Steve-a die the other day, 

Host-a glad no more. 
Cafe broke; the sheriff put 

Placard on the door. 

Broke his big-a heart, I think, 

Frien's so soon forget. 
Good-a bye! Good bye, good luck, 

Steve-a Sanguinett'! 



58 



THE LAST NIGHT 

I think the gods, who fumbhng seek 
This footstool to arrange. 

Might well have left to genial time 
The rare old Bank Exchange. 

I think the winds that seek the Bay, 
The very tide that slips. 

Will miss its cheer, and sadness cleave 
A world of ancient ships; 

That ghosts of early mariners 

And past financial kings 
Must throng the pearly bar to wail 

This mortal turn of things. 

This mortal change that cracked the cup. 
That thrust the guests to rout. 

That spilled for aye the pisco punch. 
And closed old Duncan out. 

Since Sixty-Six; since rolled the Bay 
To youthful Sansome Street, 

Had Duncan Nichol kept his place 
Impeccably discreet. 

Yet came a night, as night must come, 
When from the looking-glass 

Those ghosts of mariners stared down 
On what had come to pass; 

When Prohibition fluttered close. 
And midnight nearly struck. 

And white-haired Duncan Nichol raised 
His final glass for luck. 



59 



"To auld lang syne!" With trembling lip 
He staunchly raised the cup. 

"For aye, to auld lang syne!" we cried. 
And made it bottoms up. 

Then half a century closed its page. 

As sounded twelve o'clock. 
"All out!" Old Duncan's rusty key 

Turned stiffly in the lock. 

He turned a key ne'er turned before. 

And we, beholding, knew 
That what had been was done and been. 

And what was through was through. 



60 



IN PASSING 

I've stood at dusk on a flotsam shore, 

And dreamed of a voyage far 
To world-end ports where the world begins. 

And the palms and pagodas are; 
To ports of copra and sandalwood. 

Of lacquers and teaks and myrrh, — 
Till the wide waves as a muezzin droned. 

Calling a worshipper. 

"Co," said the cit}), harkening. 

"Far shall you sail, and free. 
Clear to the n>orld's-end ports; and then 

You shall come hacli to me." 

I've dreamed of hills where the stars burn close. 

Of hills that concede no change. 
But still bid men, to be men, ride hard 

Over the cattle range; 
Of canyons that plunge into chaparral. 

Ever to higher climb; 
And I've dreamed of a valley that God hand-paints. 

Even at blossom-time. 

"Nay," said the city, faltering, 

"Rest in these arms, nor spurn. 

Other than mine is the Tvine out there. 
And you will not return." 



THE LIGHTS 

I watched the city, .pricked in light. 

Go tumbhng, climbing, hill on hill, 

And heard her murmured dissonance. 
Then all grew still. 

I watched the navigation lights. 

The port and starboard red and green 
Draw far and dim, and water foam 

And wash between. 

I saw the friendly Ferry clock 

Grow faint and small, and Alcatraz 

Her swinging lantern seaward toss 
To ships that pass. 

Until that shore a thing remote 

Became, a dim Arabian Nights 

That some Sheherazade had told, 
I watched the lights. 



62 



CONGRESS 




